


[[e m p i r e]]

by AKnightOfAGoodKing



Category: South Park
Genre: Backstory, Canon-Typical Violence, Canon-typical language, Cheating, Corruption AU, Drama, Italiano | Italian, Post-Canon, Russian, Sex, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-08-19
Updated: 2018-08-19
Packaged: 2019-06-29 14:40:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,826
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15731496
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AKnightOfAGoodKing/pseuds/AKnightOfAGoodKing
Summary: Excerpt:[Now the apartment on the 23rd floor was covered in plastic, Christophe leaning out over the railings as he smoked one last cigarette there. Gregory was moving to an estate outside of the city. St. Claire's, he told Christophe, and nothing from this apartment was coming with him."Gregory," the hit-for-hire said, speaking to the voicemail of a phone he left on the coffee table, "I'm leaving you again. Wait for me."One sentence, and Christophe hung up and slowly finished his cigarette.](a continuation.)[DO NOT REPOST/REUSE MY WORK(S) WITHOUT MY ACKNOWLEDGEMENT AND PERMISSION]





	[[e m p i r e]]

**Author's Note:**

> This continuation happened greatly due to the kind people who commented on [[untitled]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/11836641). I wouldn't have gone on without your support and enthusiasm. Thank you. ^^

**I**

_“Luca, come back to bed,” he seductively calls out, his hair sticking to his skin. He’s wrapped in nothing but the maroon silk._

_“It's too early to get up,” she continues, chuckling against her husband’s skin. “Luca, come back to bed.”_

_Luca merely takes another puff of his cigarette, blowing toxic into the cold. The lovers he left on the bed have began to touch each other again, enticing him to join them. He huffs, amused. They aren't young, but they aren't passive in the slightest. They are some of his favorite people._

_“I'm done,” he says instead, snuffing out his cigarette._

_“Boo!” Phyllis protests, pouting now._

_“Let him go, Phyl,” Adam soothes, smirking. He blows a kiss at Christophe as the other man puts his clothes back on. “We'll punish him for skipping out on us next time.”_

_“Like anything you do is punishment,” Luca snipes. He enjoys his time with this couple immensely. He glances over to them. “But there's not going to be a next time. I'm tying up loose ends.”_

_Phyllis gasps, saddened by this news, while Adam frowns. “But, Luca,” she tries, getting out of bed and walking over to Luca, “we have so much fun together. It'd be a shame to end us.”_

_“You can always replace me.”_

_A large arm pulls him by the waist, Adam a foot taller than Luca’s shorter frame. The man grabs him by the cock, threatening to hold it prisoner. “But can you replace us?” he asked, his free hand grasping one of Luca's._

_“You_ **_are_ ** _the replacements,” Luca teases, chuckling as Phyllis kneels down in front of him. She slowly kisses his cock as Adam nibbles at his ear. They’re very playful together, worked well too._

_Luca grabs Phyllis by the hair. “One last time,” he tells them, smirking. “Something to remember me by.”_

.

.

.

 _Twenty months and four days._ He counted. He etched that date forever in his memory. He double checked. He redid the math daily. Twenty months, four days, and _counting._

“Gregory, please, let me introduce my sweet Veronica to you. She's soft spoken and humble.”

The blond smiled at Veronica, the daughter of Mister Louis Palmer, antique smuggler. Gregory was one of his favorite clients, a tenth of the items in St. Claire’s Estate fenced off by him. Palmer was now trying to fence off his daughter.

Veronica, she was a pretty woman, very pretty. She had lipstick more pink than red, wide brown eyes, and a small face that matched her stature. She smiled politely at Gregory, who was a decade older. It made him wonder if Palmer had so many affairs so that he would never run out of children to marry off.

“It's enchanting to meet such a lovely woman,” Gregory said, missing the back of her hand like the gentleman he was. Or kept up in appearances. “I never thought you'd hide such an artwork from me, Palmer.”

Veronica blushed, laughing shyly. Gregory was already bored of her because, sadly, there probably wasn't more to her personality than that laugh.

“Had to test the water,” Palmer explained, pushing his daughter closer to Gregory. “Had to get a sense of your tastes, but the wait was worth it since you seem to like my sweet Veronica. Why don't I set you two up for a wonderful weekend in the Bahamas? Veronica loves beaches, don't you, darling?”

“Yes,” Veronica replied too softly, her brown eyes fluttering from Gregory to the floor of the party. “I love to swim too. There's nothing better in my opinion.”

 _Oh, look at that,_ Gregory thought behind his smile, _she has opinions._

“I enjoy the beach as well,” he said, “but I can't stand finding sand in my pocket whenever I go to pay for cocktails.”

It was dreadful, but it was necessary to make conversation with Palmer and his daughter. He couldn't be so rude as to walk away from them right that moment. No, he had to mingle, mingle with crime boss fathers and illegal empire mothers and their softer, meeker children who had yet to grow into the shoes their predecessors would make them fit into.

Either way, though, he wasn't going on a weekend to the Bahamas, not with "soft spoken and humble" Veronica. He didn't want to leave the state unless he had to. He was far too busy with work. Sure, he _could_ afford a weekend or two away from this world as much as he like, but he didn't see the point. Life was pain, and so Gregory will push through the hurt and the drag, the bitterness and the anger, through the pointless of it all. He will succeed, and then he will die. Going on a trip with Veronica, however, wasn't necessary pain, not one Gregory would willingly go through.

So as he spoke, Gregory let his eyes wander throughout the small ballroom of the Manor, watching and observing his many guests. Then he caught eyes with brown dull like dirt belonging to a raven. She looked at him with a blank expression and nodded. It was nothing but a gesture to come and talk to her. Gregory did not recognize her.

“My apologies,” the blond man said, looking sorry, “but I see an old friend of mine whom I haven't seen in ages. If you two would kindly excuse, please enjoy yourselves. Maybe I'll see you around, _Veronica._ ”

The way he said her name was deliberate. He wanted her to flush deeply because that was good enough for her father to let things happen as he made more plans of proposing his daughter to Gregory again.

Gregory gracefully made his way towards the raven who watched him ever so closely. “I've never seen you before,” the Englishman said, giving her a polite smile. “I don't think I’ve ever extended you an invitation.”

He had been around enough dangerous people that his could sense intent towards his person. He could sense the restraint contempt of his enemies and the admiration of his so called friends. This raven was neither. Her eyes seemed very mocking in nature, her youth the same as Veronica but hiding so much of the past like shells beneath sand on a beach.

“My name is Klara Christovich,” the young woman said, her accent lightly Eastern-European. “I was suddenly sent here to be your bodyguard. I'm at your disposal.”

Gregory raised a curious, well manicured eyebrow. “I don't need one,” he replied almost immediately. “Who sent you?”

“You know him,” she said. _“Le Mole_.”

Gregory was not angered by this. This Klara must be a stray Christophe picked up over the years. God, was she young, probably an orphan to take his lover’s name as her own. A dedicated one too. Loyal.

“Where is he now?” Gregory said, gesturing a wait staff to come over. He picked up a flute of champagne and gave it to her, already deciding how to play this situation in the near future.

“I don't drink, Mister Yardale,” she said, declining the offered glass.

“I'll humor Christophe while he's away,” he said, still holding out the drink, “but we'll do it _my_ way. Pretend, Klara Christovich, that you're my paramour, a very likely prospect of a future wife. You're attractive, fortunately, and most likely smart if you lived this long doing what _he_ does.”

Klara frowned. “My father will not like this. You are special to him.”

“Even better. It's about due time that my pet returns. What do you say, _darling_? As my prospect, you'll be allowed with me without question, and I get to make my lover come back in a fit of jealousy. It'll be easier on us both.”

The raven looked at him, her dull brown eyes too bright now. “Only because this is how I can fulfill order from my father. It is nice to meet you, _Grisha_."

With that, Klara finally accepted the offers drink, but still, she did not drink it, keeping it in her hand like a decoration, and with consent, Gregory began to show her off—quietly whispering to her to speak little and only in French—as his most recent interest.

She was willing to give as far as to sleep with him, but not far enough down to submit to his seduction. Gregory silently applauded her in this, seeing how he knew that a charming smile here and there was enough to make anyone else fall on their knees for him. She had no interest in him, not yet, the blond supposed as he glanced down at his side.

Klara was sleeping, wearing a thin silk tank top that belonged to Bebe and a pair of plain black panties. She trained, every day by the look of her muscles and defined legs and arms. A very pretty thing. Gregory could only guess at what his lover was playing at.

.

.

.

Bebe arrived, two suitcases ushered alongside her by the hired servants. She took off her sunglasses, smiling brightly. There were already signs of aging, light creases around her eyes. She was just recently widowed, bruises from the last accident barely fading away.

“Hello, Gregory,” she greeted in the dining kitchen. The chef had already prepared breakfast.

Gregory return that greeting with a kiss on her cheek. “Hello, Bebe,” he said.

A woman was at the threshold, watching the two of them carefully. She was like a hawk, wearing Bebe’s black tank top and dark underwear, likely to bite your ears off at the first sign of hostility. She was like a mad dog, pent up with intensity and passion.

Bebe could see it in the younger woman’s dark eyes and wondered how Christophe knew her. There were only two people Bebe knew who'd return back to him time and time again. One of which was Christophe, and the other her. This stranger was a different breed, something akin to Gregory.

“Do you like the top?” Bebe asked casually.

“Is too soft,” the younger woman answered curtly. “Is pricey but its worth is not in its material. Is clothes for delicate children.”

“Thanks. It's cashmere,” Bebe lightly said. “I'm Bebe Stevens. And you?”

The other woman narrowed her eyes in hesitation, glancing over to Gregory finding no discomfort in this confrontation. He gave her nod as he bit into his bread. “Klara Christovich,” she answered, now making her way to the table. She sat down next to the blond, Bebe taking the other side of him.

“I have some clothes for you, Klara,” Bebe said, continuing the conversation single sided. “They're in the front. I've provided enough, but if you need more, just send me a text. It'll be free of charge, of course. Gregory tells me that you're his new bodyguard? I trust you know how to get protective gear and clothing for yourself, yes?”

Klara nodded, eating breakfast with them. “You are correct,” she replied. “Give me all your contacts. Everything must go through me before they get to Grisha from now on.”

Bebe raised an eyebrow in challenge. “I'll give you my phone number, but think again if I'll just let you yank Gregory like that. I've been here longer than you have, so take a step back 'cause between the two of us, _I_ know how to handle people like _you_.”

The two women glared at each other, and Gregory laughed, amused. “This is unexpected,” he commented. “Call the cleaners if there's going to be blood. And take it outside. I paid a lot for this Manor. Klara, get dressed in an hour. I have a meeting about a jurisdiction dispute on the coast. They like pretty women in children's clothes.”

“Yes, Grisha,” Klara said, breaking the glare off Bebe, and concentrated on breakfast, eating as much as necessary. No more. No less. She finished in silence, walking out of the dining room without another word.

Bebe grabbed a bottle of Scotch from the liquor cabinet and a glass. She poured herself three fingers worth, and took a sip. “What are you planning, Gregory?” she asked, leaning against the love of her life “She's Christophe's, isn't she?”

“Just biding my time, Bebe,” Gregory answered, pressing her free hand against his face. “He sent me a gift, but it's not enough.”

“Maybe he won't come back. He just left like that.”

“He'll come back to me. I have his daughter and his love. Where else would he go?”

“Hell.”

Gregory laughed again, quietly. “Hell doesn't exist for those who don't believe in the consequences of God.”

“And where would you go if there's no Hell?”

“Somewhere I rather be; right here, my cock inside you.”

The blond gave her a boyish smirk, and Bebe giggled, biting her bottom lip. “You have a meeting in an hour.”

“I can always spare a few hours for you.”

Her glass of scotch was left unfinished as it spilled off the dining table.

.

.

.

It was actually surprising to witness, for the first time, Klara using her skills so quickly. The two drug lords in the middle of the dispute were very temperament. They had less tolerant about having a third party associate running the whole thing. They tried to pull their guns on Gregory.

Klara shot the both of them, Jenkins then Lippi, at the first sign of physically hostility, their hands reaching for their hidden pistols. She could've have killed them instantly, but each bullet nicked their necks. They began to bleed out, blood gushing down their bodies like leaking bottle. She walked over to their spasming bodies and kicked their fallen guns away, and she watched as they died.

Gregory ran over how he could smooth this out, a pleasant smile on his lips, until he decided to go with the truth. People were always in awe with those who could tame such cold wildness. He already predicted that the elite community of New York was already aware of Klara as his lover, so they should know about what she could do by nightfall. It would be soon that they come to finally realize who was running the show now.

“Kill everyone else they brought with them,” he ordered, moving his Oxford shoe away from the growing puddle. The bodies stopped moving. “Make it clean and quick.”

“Yes, Grisha,” Klara said before leaving the room. All guards were left outside as part of the meeting rules. Neutral grounds, as it was supposed to be. But that also meant no weapons.

There was a couple of gunshots, shouting, and things falling before Gregory heard footsteps walking away.

.

.

.

«Sometimes, I wished you would talk to me, but when you respond like this, I'm glad you don't,» The Italian noble descendent mused as he thumbed across the beast's lips.

Not that Angelo knew the beast’s name because he had not spoken in weeks, not since he left England. He was being amused at the time, and to speak would to break his charm as the mute, stray cat. Or was he a dog, since the first time Angelo saw him, the beast had killed two men? But he was acting too comfortable to be a dog and by no means was he loyal to this man. This was not a man who could have a future for himself on his own, the beast knew. He had worked for many men like this before.

Instead of giving Angelo a helpful response, the beast wrapped his arms around the older man’s shoulders and kissed him, grinding against him. The Italian was attached to younger men, one of the many reasons he took a stray back home. What a sick bastard.

«What a good pet you are,»Angelo said, pleased.

The beast frowned, pulling away. He got up from the man’s lap and left the room, much to Angelo’s surprise.

Angelo was a very rich man, but he was a very stupid man. He’d thought he brought home a pet, but he was wrong. The beast, by all means, had simply made Angelo’s house his own, for now.

.

.

.

There was a dinner party in the rich part of the city. Klara watched, already dressed in a satin black dress, Gregory put on his attire like clockwork. Everything was put on properly but with a small purpose to seem like it was not. He wanted to appear as someone who knew what was what but not sure how to wear it.

“Vhy don't you take blonde woman?” she asked, eyes always watching. “She is your friend, yes? And she likes you. You like her.”

Gregory laughed, finishing with his tie. “I do, and she does,” he replied, “but there are lines which I won't cross once again I've seen the other side. I'll keep her with me, but I won't let her too close again. I made that mistake once already.”

“Are you going to try it with me?”

Gregory looked at her in the reflection of his mirror, the angle showing her his entire figure. He was handsome, too much so like the Devil. “I wouldn't mind,” he said, putting on his suit jacket, “but you won't get too far. I'll have you put yourself down before it happens.”

Klara stood up from the bed, deciding she should head to the car. She had no idea what Gregory planned to do with her, but she was starting to feel how dangerous he was, to those around him. The blond Englishman was not physically stronger than her and others like her, but his mind was a particular case of interest. Rather than just beat a man down, Gregory was willing to let cruelty be executed. Most people had an aversion to causing pain upon others. Gregory demanded it without words or signal. He didn't lift a finger, but with his charms and his intelligence, he could always get to the resources to break a man. She too had no aversion to inflicting pain onto others, not when they had to her.

The ride was a quiet one on Klara’s part as Gregory was immediately preoccupied with a phone call. He spoke French, some of the words and phrases passing Klara by like the view blurred by the wind.

“Louis,” Gregory said, smiling when they arrived. He gestured an older man with a hawkish face to Klara. “This is my girlfriend, Klara. Klara, dear, this is a close friend of mine, Louis Palmer. He helped me get the painting above the fireplace.”

Palmer looked affronted by this sudden reveal, but he hid it. “What a beauty,” he spoke, laced with sweetly disguised disappointment. “Reminds me of my sweet Penelope. I believe you've met her, Gregory.”

“No, not at all. I've only met Veronica.”

Palmer gave his other daughter a look, something akin to irritation. He wanted her to do something. He wanted her to use her womanly charms on Gregory, and seemed to look angrier and angrier as she became more timid and anxious. Penelope had yet to speak a word, almost to the point of tears due to frustrations and heavy expectations.

“Mister Palmer,” Klara spoke. Gregory thought she was going to publicly shame Palmer. “May I borrow Penelope for night? I don't know many people here. This is first outing Grisha has taken me. Friend would be helpful.”

Penelope, younger than Veronica but a year or so, blinked in surprise, Klara going her a soft smile. _Well played_ , Gregory's eyes spoke.

“Okay,” the girl said, her brunette curls bouncing lightly. 

Klara smiled a little more, holding out a hand. Penelope wasn't sure how to take that, the gesture odd for a woman to make for another. “In Russia, people are wery intimate, even vith strangers,” Klara assured. “Please, don't be afraid. I promise it would only be pleasant.”

Penelope laughed, feeling a little more comfortable, and she took Klara’s hand. “I'll go enjoy myself tonight, Grisha,” Klara said. “Look for me vhen you're done vith your business. I don't vant to disturb you.”

And with that, Klara left Gregory to the lowly being that was Lois Palmer, a pretty girl for her and her company only. _Well played indeed._

And as the two young women walked around, Klara found that Penelope was very knowledgeable about the other guests at the party, telling Klara about almost all of them. Klara mentally noted to keep in contact with this young woman. She would have some use later on.

“How did you meet Mista Yardale?” Penelope asked, a southern drawl in her words. It had become more apparent as they continue their walk. She blushed, catching her slip up. “I mean _Mister_ Yardale.”

“Is okay,” Klara assured her with a nod. “Your accent is not sign of lower class. I assume your father dislike it?”

The brunette shamefully nodded. “Daddy doesn't like it when I talk this way, but I grew up in Louisiana until I was fifteen. I didn't even know I had a daddy until after Mama died. He appeared one day and said I was his daughter and took me in right away. He has other kids, but I only know Veronica and Jacob because they ain't too much older than me. He does get mad whenever I talk like Mama. Said I don't sound pretty.”

“He is wrong. Bad man. I don't like him.”

Penelope gave her a weak smile. “But he's my Daddy. He's all the family I got left. Mama never had any brothers or sisters, and my grandpappy died when I was just a babe. And Veronica and Jacob are nice to me. They try very hard for Daddy.”

“I see. And who are those two over there? Couple. Their mannerisms speak English.”

And they were now speaking to Gregory, seemingly acquaintances with Palmer as they were having a polite conversation. What struck out about them was that the man bear resemblance to Gregory, handsome men with blond hair and blue eyes. The other man smiled as genuinely as Gregory put on his face. The woman beside him had long brown hair, French braids, skinny and tall as well. They were most likely influential characters.

“Dat’s Adam and Phyllis Greenwich,” Penelope answered easily. “They do business with Daddy sometimes because they're fencers too. Daddy tried showing off Jacob to them once because Jacob’s the prettiest, and they like pretty things. But Daddy got mad because Jacob was too young for their taste.”

“How old is Jacob?”

Penelope got small. “Seventeen.”

“I see. Vhy does he vants their approval? Your father.”

Penelope shrugged. “Veronica knows about that better than I do. I'll ask for you. I think maybe Paul might know some’em too since Daddy likes him the best.”

“That would be appreciated, _Pasha_. You can tell me vhen you come over to estate Friday.”

The fencer’s daughter lit up. “Really? You'd invite plain, ol’ me to St. Claire estate?”

Klara nodded. “I hope we can be friends.”

Penelope enthusiastically nodded her head. “Of course! I haven't made a friend since I left Louisiana.”

“I'm glad. I hope you vill come to trust me as I've come to trust you. Your knowledge of people is impeccable.”

The brunette blushed, not used to such compliments. “Ah, darling, you praise me too highly. I hope so too. Maybe you can come back with me one day. I do really miss Louisiana, and I haven't seen my Mama since I left.”

.

.

.

_Putting himself back into the cage of proper society for the past two years makes Christophe forget how big the world truly was. He has forgotten the difference features of faces, nearly forgotten the way blood splattered. He has only Gregory freshly etched on his scarred skin, the other man’s scent covering his own._

_“Are you Le Mole?” his contact asks, dark shades hiding his eyes and his body hiding a well shaped body ready to strike at anytime._

_“Oui,” the mercenary says, flicking the ashes off his cigarette. “You sent ze first half?”_

_“Of course. You'll get the other half million after you sail this shipment into Peru.”_

_“What ze shipment again?”_

_“Twenty girls aged fourteen to nineteen. Get them there in time, and maybe the boss will let you take one home with you.”_

_Christophe clicks his tongue in annoyance, stabbing his cigarette against the contact’s suit. “Don't get eet wrong zat I enjoy ze shit you fucks do.”_

_The contact pushes Christophe away, wiping away the burn with irritation. “Just trying to be nice, you frog. Now get going. The boss wants the shipment delivered by Saturday.”_

_The sizable vehicle is already loaded, a small fishing boat used to not draw attention. There is food and water onboard, and a heavy lock on the door. Nothing would get out for the next thirty-six hours. Christophe stays up the entire time, listening to the sea and the quiet sobbings down below. Then he hears someone threaten him._

_“Whoever you are,” she says, spitting with spite and anger, “I'll kill you! I'll kill you,_ **_сука!_ ** _”_

_Christophe chuckles, finding the voice interesting. “Shut up and cry wiz ze rest, you godless beetch. Zey’ll break you soon enough.”_

**_“_ _Oтвaли! я тебя убью!_ ** **_"_ **

_Christophe is silent for a moment, thinking. He is curious, and interested. “What ees your name, girl?”_

_She returns with her own silence._

_“Spit eet out,” Christophe prompts. “I can't call you beetch ze whole time. Unless you like zat kind of zing.”_

_“Klara,” she answers. “What's_ _yours_ _?”_

.

.

.

There were two blond men in the dining room that morning, one wearing clothes too baggy for his skinny figure and the other dressed like he was ready to take a day long hike up in the mountains. Gregory was sitting with them, breakfast already made.

“Klara,” the master of the house said, waving his hand to beckon her to sit down by him. There was a plate waiting for her. “Klara, these are my friends from my hometown, Kenny McCormick and Butter Scotch. They’ve come to visit while Butters is back from his travels.”

“It's nice to meet you,” Klara said in polite respect for Gregory’s associates. “I'm Klara Christovich.”

“Hey, baby,” the skinny blond greeted with a smile and a wink, clicking his tongue like an idiot. “Didn't know Gregory had an extra sleeping around here.”

“ _Kenny_ ,” the other blond scolded, most likely Scotch if the other was McCormick. He sounded disapproving. “That's not how you speak to other people. It's not nice.”

“Just teasing, babe. The finger guns are only for you.”

Scotch didn't seem amused, exasperated at the other’s antics. He rolled his blue eyes before turning his attention to Klara for the first time. “It's nice to meet you, Klara,” he said, smiling widely. He seemed out of place here in the Estate, even though he looked like the trumpet holding angel found many times in Gregory's art collection. “Don't mind Kenny. He likes to play around a lot and doesn't really know when to stop.”

“That's because anyone else would ask me not to,” McCormick interjected to make such a distasteful comment with a cattish grin.

Scotch glared at the other man in warning for a moment, Gregory chuckling. “If you haven't figured it out,” the Englishman said, “Butters and Kenny are together, though not married yet. They're visiting friends for their eighth anniversary.”

“And I see that you've made yourself pretty rich, Gregory,” Scotch commented, but there was an odd tone to it. His smile disappeared into a small frown. “Though I don't see why you quit your law office for _this._ You weren't completely on the wrong side back then.”

Gregory shrugged, not a bit offended by Scotch’s implications. “I like to believe I'm meant for bigger things, Butters, and that office was getting too small. Kenny doesn't mind.”

“Kenny doesn't mind a lot of things, even though he should.”

Gregory hummed in agreement. “When will you be heading to Germany?” he asked, topics suddenly changing with no impressions of the last in the general atmosphere. “You're going to visit Wendy and Cartman, right?”

“Yeah,” McCormick answered, not caring about what just happened. “Probably after we visit Heidi in Florida. So by the end of the month?”

“I didn't think you were close friend with Heidi.”

“We are,” Scotch said, adding to the conversation. “She started tutoring math in middle school and Kenny needed all the help he could get and I went with him because my parents would've grounded me if I got a B in any of my classes. We still chat over Twitter and Instagram. She's going to give us a tour of the Kennedy Space Center.”

At that point, Klara started to tuned their conversation out because it had been such a long time since she had been involved in normal life. She could've gone back to her hometown, but she hadn't been the same since she was kidnapped that one quiet night, cool but not cold. It felt like it was so long ago that she was kept in total darkness with nothing but the sound of other young girls, weeping and scared. Her family probably cried for her when she didn't come back home.

She blinked, and words started meaning something.

“—having Tweek and Stan’s kids in vetro, inducing her to have twins,” Scotch continued. “They're really serious about having a family that Craig and Tweek decided to bid for the house next door to Stan’s. When they get enough money, all four of them are going to put the houses together, for the space and closeness.”

“So the kids are going to have three dad-uncles and one mom,” McCormick commented, snorting in laughter. “It's going to be a weird liberal hillbilly family right there.”

Gregory chuckled at that. “I can help with the move and renovations,” he said, smiling. “It'll be my wedding gift to Stan and Ruby.”

Scotch nodded with a small smile. “I'll be sure to tell them that,” he said. “You'll be at the wedding, right? You haven't been back home since high school. People who haven't left are curious about you.”

“If I'm not busy at that time. I'm in the middle of some deals right now, meeting the right people and saying the right things. If not, I'll make sure to drop by soon, though, to congratulate them myself.”

Scotch hummed.

Breakfast was soon over without Klara saying a word, eating slowly as she observed the company. They were very comfortable with Gregory, Scotch was ballsy enough to judge the biggest uprising crime lord this side of the state. McCormick was an odd character too, disregarding any tension as he leaned back with a glint of childish amusement in his gilded eyes. He winked at her one more time, without the sound.

“As you sure you won't stay for the night?” Gregory asked as it neared noon. They had moved to the garden patio. “I can take you two out for a night into the city.”

McCormick shook his head. “Nah, man,” he said too casually, “Butters and I kinda want to make this non-stop, only stopping when we’re both too burnt out from sitting on our asses the car drive wherever we're going. And Florida's a long way off in our plans. Thanks though.”

Gregory nodded in understanding.

“We'll see you at the wedding, hopefully,” McCormick spoke again. “You know my number if you need someone to fuck shit up for you. My ratings are going to plummet while I'm off work.”

The two men drove off, the sun high in the sky which was blue and only blue.

.

.

.

The beast woke up with a collar around his neck, on the bed he slept the night before. He was drugged, or else he would have woken up the moment someone tried to touch him. It was bulky and black, made of layers of tight leather. He touched it, feeling for a way to take it off, but he only felt a keyhole right below his Adam’s apple.

He frowned, getting off the gold silk bed he had been sleeping in these several weeks. It was Angelo’s, of course, but the Italian heir didn't mind sharing his bed. The beast snarled, naked in front of the large body mirror, as the keyhole glistened in the light when he turned his head at an angle. He saw the Nachinni family crest embedded on the thick leather.

_Egoistic fuck._

The door opened, Angelo stepping in with a satisfied grin on his lips. «Do you like it?» He asked, ignoring the beast’s glare. The Italian reached a hand down to grasped his invited guest by the collar. «I'm having friends over, so I need to make sure they know what belongs to who.»

The beast slapped the hand away, getting up from the silk. He started towards the door, knowing if he stayed, he'd rip the man apart. Angelo stopped him by a grabbed on the arm.

«Now don't be like that,» Angelo gently chided, pulling them out into the bedroom balcony. The Italian pressed the beast against the marble edge, his body lined up right against the other, and they were both overlooking the beautiful garden below. There were a dozen species of roses carefully cultivated because the beast, once, looked at a rose for too long.

«I know you're a free creature,» Angelo spoke again, his mouth breathing hotly against the beast’s ear. His hands roamed downwards, one grabbing the other by the ass, and the younger man growled, moaning ever so slightly at how much he could hold with his hand. His thumb rubbed against the skin almost absent-mindedly. «But I hope to persuade you to be mine. All this could be yours, bambino **.»**

The beast nearly choked out a laugh at that nickname. Angel spent days, trying to gaud a word from him, but the man got nothing more than an amused laugh.

The beast hummed in half-hearted contemplation. Then he shook his head, smacking the other man’s hand off of him. He flipped himself around, biting his bottom lip in a gesture to seduce. Angelo humored him well, his dirt brown eyes casted down before flickering back up to Angelo who smiled in understanding.

That was how the beast got a young heir to submit, on his knees so _eager_ to suck his dick. The beast grinned to himself as he let his head lull backwards.

.

.

.

The beast had his legs over Angelo's shoulders, sitting on top of the golden couch in one of the Nachinni family houses in Florence. This was Angelo’s personal one, and only invited guests were allowed in, five guards always on duty. They, and three of the young master’s friends, were in the sitting room, the men pouring out drinks as the beast watched silently, Angelo slowly stroking the muscular legs at his sides.

«Angelo,» Rafaele, the third son of the Italian descendant family of Bianchi, said, his eyes drawn to the beast sitting upon his friend’s shoulder. He tapped at his neck, indicating at the beast. «Are you keeping this man?»

Angelo laughed, nodding smugly. «I found him in an alleyway,» he explained. «And I took him home. He's good company.»

Manuel Giordano, brother-in-law to three high level politicians, scoffed. «As if. I bet you paid him. Does he even understand Italian? Did you pick up a cabbage?»

«Don't start things you can't finish, Manuel,» Angelo warned, the beast playing with his hair mindlessly. «I found him over two bodies in that alleyway. I suspect he is more than he seems.»

«He doesn't talk much,» Davide Nachinni, Angelo’s cousin, commented. «Maybe Manuel is right. Maybe it was a coincidence. Does he even listen to what you say? Can he even hear?»

«Trust, cousin, he can. He takes suggestions very well.»

Rafaele blanched, shaking his head. «I tolerate knowing you bring strangers into your bed, but I won't tolerate hearing about it,» he said with a frown. «Keep it from my ears.»

Angelo hummed in laughter, stroking his thumbs across the beast’s knees. «You wouldn’t say that if you had a chance with him. He’s very capable and prideful. It’s a fun game to make him moan.»

«And have you won any rounds?» Davide asked in a tease.

The beast revealed a smug grin, hidden only to Angelo. The three other men choked out in laughter, which confused the young heir. The beast decided to slink away from the conversation then, throwing a leg around front of Angelo and stepping off the couch. Giordano let out a pseudo whine, waving at the beast to come over to him. Angelo was frowning, but the beast only came close enough to steal the drink from the man’s hand. The beast took a sip as he walked out the door, closing it behind him as the laughter intensified.

Sometimes, when he was bored of the house, the beast wandered around.

Sometimes, he went as far as Germany, always going around France.

Sometimes, he just walked to the beach. He never took Angelo, though. Who cared about what that dumb fuck felt while he was gone? The Nachinni family was going to fall if such a pussy was going to inherit just because he was the oldest son. The beast bet three year old Andrea would make a better head, but the beast was enjoying his downtime too much to care. He’d tolerate Angelo a little longer.

«I’ve never seen you around before,» a pretty brunette said to him, her summer dress going down to her ankles. She was carrying a basket and wearing a sun hat, her feet bare. She must live around here, her hands free from hard work. She was someone else’s daughter. She was perking her lips. She wanted to suck his cock. She didn't care about the collar around his neck. «I’m Maria. And you?»

«Julio,» the beast replied, his voice soft. «Do you live here?»

Maria pointed to a beach house down the shore. It was white and minimalistic, not entirely eye catching but noticeably rich in materials. «I don’t suppose you are on vacation?»

The beast smiled, charmed by her affronting nature. She was used to this. She was intriguing. «I suppose I can be. Do you want me to be, _bella_?»

She chuckled, grasping him by the wrist. She began to pull him towards the beach house. She spoke eloquently, the same way a ballerina would move. The beast went along with her, his dull brown eyes watching the way she swung her hips ever so slightly. Her dress was thin and white, the salt water at her ankles making the fabric see through. He was tempted to push her into the water, but that would ruin whatever was in the basket.

«I don’t suppose you are dangerous,» she said when they reached the oaken door, and he thought she was stupid for asking now. But he saw the glint in her hazel eyes. She didn’t really care, did she? She was young. She only wanted to have fun, and she wanted to fuck. Sure. He’d play along as long as she liked. He wanted to have fun too.

«I don’t suppose _you_ are dangerous,» he repeated back to her, pressing her against the door. She giggled in glee. «Do you hide knives under your pillow?»

«Only poison on my lips,» she replied, kissing him. She didn't mind the collar around his neck, didn't even ask about it, and she bit hard at his collarbone.

The beast supposed he’d stay at the beach for a little while.

.

.

.

 _“Mister Yardale, I can see that you have potential, but why should I want to work for you?”_ asked New York Councilmember Paula Brown asked. Klara imagined her dress suit was pristine, dark blue and ironed. Her red hair was put up tightly in a bun, which pulled the sagging skin of her face back a little to elude a younger age. Klara imaged the office as she listened carefully through an earpiece, watching in the car in the first level parking lot of the the Great Alexander hotel. _“I’m a respected figure of the state. It won’t do for me to be associated with you, even with your past profession. Why should I risk my reputation for you?”_

Gregory chuckled; she felt it vibrate in her ear. _“I’m glad to know that you know what you want, Missus Brown,”_ the Englishman said, his accent charming suddenly. _“However, I want to first build our partnership on something much more intangible. Money, by no means, comes hard for me, but loyalty and friendship do. I’d like to rectify that, starting with you if you would do be the honor. This could be the start of a beautiful friendship, Missus Brown, and the like. If_ **_you_ ** _like.”_

_“Are you trying to seduce me?”_

_“I’m always one to reward good behavior than punish bad ones. I can promise you that the payoff will be grand.”_

Brown let out a laugh, almost mocking. _“You’re a handsome boy, but you’re still just a boy. You can only dream an empire with loyalty and friendship. You can make it come true with money. How else would you build it? Nobody cares about those kind of things anymore. If I’m right, nobody ever cared about those things. It’s all bullshit we politicians say to get people to pick us.”_

Klara heard a shuffling of clothes, and she imaged Gregory leaning back, a hand resting on his lips in thought. _“Is that a no, Missus Brown?”_

_“Oh, you already know the answer. Don’t play dumb with me, Mister Yardale. I deal with idiots at every rally I go to. You can’t trick me.”_

There was a moment of silence, the sound of glass clinking echoing through the earpiece. _“I see. Well, thank you for your time then. I hope you’ll keep this meeting a secret.”_

_“Of course. How would I ever explain meeting up with a new crime lord? It’d be like Frank Sinatra and JFK all over again. Goodbye, Mister Yardale. Maybe we’ll see each other again.”_

Klara turned off the earpiece then, and she waited in the car, listening to nothing. This meeting went according to plan as Gregory expected. Brown will not be keeping this meeting a secret. She was going to tell a fellow corrupted politician to her right about everything, not hesitant to speak Gregory’s name, and news would spread through their network that it was easy to refuse him because he was running on nothing but a childish dream. Now, Klara needed to wait for nightfall.

“You’ll do well, my pet’s bloodhound,” Gregory said as they walked through the threshold of the Manor. “I know I won’t be disappointed. You’re a gift sent to me for a purpose, and that purpose is to obey. I’ll see you at breakfast tomorrow. My friend Wendy and her husband are visiting for a week. You should introduce yourself then. I’m sure Cartman will like you. He’s friend with Kenny, and that man isn’t the best kind of person.”

“Yes, Grisha,” Klara replied dutifully. “Good night, Grisha.”

Gregory gave her a kiss on the cheek in reply before heading to the library, dismissing her for the night.

Klara drove back into the city afterwards, parking the car in a small auto shop that closed very late for special cases. They had a black motorbike ready for her, the license plate a fake number and the engine made to be as quiet as money could buy. In the compartment, there were the tools she requested. She only nodded in acknowledgement as one of the mechanics took her car in for a tune-up. They’d input the job on their database to give her an alibi. She rode off immediately to the more suburban part of the city, where families settled, and she parked the bike at the nearest park of 7091 Watergrove Avenue, four blocks away. She parked it near a dim lamp post and walked the rest of the way, carrying the tools she requested.

7091 Watergrove Avenue looked a lot like 7093 and 7089 Watergrove Avenue because it was the kind of suburban area in which the houses looked like exact copies of each other. Most families that lived here were middle class or higher, and yet each and every one of them settled for homes that didn’t seem to belong to them. Klara stepped onto the property through the wooden gate that separated the front yard from the sidewalk. It wasn’t locked, and she remained in the shadows as she entered. The black she wore would hide her even more in the darkness.

She walked around to the back door, to where the electric circuits were. She unlocked the door with a duplicated key and inputted the necessary security code. The red light softly beeped green, and she walked in, breathing calmly. Recalling from memory of the house blueprints, she manually turned off all the smoke alarms and started to pour out a generous amount of gasoline on everything from the kitchen to the living room to the dining room to the guest bathroom. She locked up all the windows too. She only need the first story and the basement to finish the job. She walked herself backwards to the basement door easily, going down the new wooden stairs all the way with a light trail of gasoline. They doubled it as the laundry room and playroom. Klara poured out the last of the tank there.

Klara paused for a moment, taking out a stove lighter. She set the toys on fire and walked up the stairs of the basement, not looking back as she carried the gas tank back up with her. Her pace was faster than the flames could devour, a kindling at first before it engulfed the left out laundry. She left the wooden door open and walked out of the back door, looking it behind her with a soft click. She made her way back to the park, waiting for the signal.

While she waited, the night was very quiet, the sound of crickets echoing through the warm air. This was nothing like the metal box she was once locked up in, held up with a dozen other weeping girls. This was nothing like Russia in her small village on the outskirts of Kiev. This was nothing but peaceful, she thought.

The sirens blared through the quiet ten minutes later. Houses these days burn less than five minutes. They don’t make them as they used to.

.

.

.

Cartman was uncomfortable and unhappy in the Estate. As his wife was chatting with that fucker Yardale, he was left to sit on her right. It was either come to New York and behave or stay in Germany while she _still_ went off to New York. But he never trusted Yardale, not ever since Wendy fucked him back in college.

 _Fuck,_ he hated that blond fuck. He hated that his wife was still friends with him. Cartman hated that he was always questioning why she stayed with him. He hated how insecure he got just sitting at the dining table of the damn place. He wanted to go back to Germany.

Neither Yardale and Wendy acknowledged the young woman sitting across from him, eating breakfast like there weren't guests around. Cartman sighed, unknowingly eating in a way that made his chubby cheeks jiggle. He didn't feel hungry, but he ate to be polite. For Wendy. She was always nagging like a bitch about his manners, so he was trying, even if it had been for the last two decades.

Cartman observed the curt movement of the young woman, his refined nose scenting a hint of a smoldering fire. As a kid, he spent a lot of time burning ant hills. He'd know what arson smelled like. He did it a couple times himself.

“Whose life did you destroy?” he asked casually, attempting to make conversation. He slowly chewed on a piece of beef. It was juicy, and the chef deserved praise later.

She didn't answer.

Again, he inhaled sharply, and he was hit with a sprinkle of gunpowder, dirt and salt water. There was just some smells that never came off like trauma and disease. Cartman liked her already. At least she had a scent, unlike Yardale.

“Do you fuck frogs?” he tried again. “Or only the frog with a shovel up his ass?”

“Vatch your mouth, fatass,” the woman replied without missing a beat, her brown eyes glaring at him, but Cartman wasn't afraid.

His wife was _Wendy Testaburger_ , the girl from elementary with an entire future ahead of her, and she turned it into a fucking mess for anyone who got in her way. They'd agreed to keep work out of the home as much as possible, but Cartman had let go of the few times Wendy had a few “associates” drag body into the basement. They both went to bed together those nights.

“It's a lot of gasoline,” he continued, grinning. “A house, huh? How big was the family?”

“Not your business,” she said back, chewing on her bite. “Ask Grisha.”

Cartman’s expression soured. “I rather not. I hate him.”

“He's right there.”

“He knows. He doesn't care. How long have you been his bitch?”

The woman's eyes narrowed more dangerously. “Not bitch.”

“Right. DeLorn is his bitch. Still. Last time I heard, he was in England.”

Someone clicked their tongue in irritation.

“Eric, Gregory and I will be going out for a while. You can stay here if you like, or go back to the hotel,” Wendy then said, standing up. Gregory was already out the door, saying something too softly for Cartman to care about straining his ears to hear.

There was a look on her face, a warning of some sorts. Cartman knew what it meant, and he ignored it. “Yeah, whatever,” he told his wife. “Don't fuck someone I wouldn't.”

Wendy let out a disgusted noise, her eyebrows furrowed. “Shut up,” she said, begrudgingly kissing him on the cheek before leaving.

The Estate was now almost empty, Cartman and the young woman in the dining room.

“Vat have you heard?” she asked, straight to the point.

Cartman smirked. “I have acquaintances in many places,” he gave, “and a pair so happened to be moping and upset because a play partner of theirs just cut them off. A short man with brown hair and eyes named Luca. Whether it's DeLorn or not, we can't be sure, however.”

“He hasn't contacted me in months. I think he may need my help.”

Cartman scoffed, throwing his chin up in disbelief. “If he was dead, there'd be a body. Too many people know him. Hiding his body would be not help anyone’s reputation, not when fucking with his body could raise the bar. If he's incapacitated, he's where he wants to be. You being here is exactly what he wants. DeLorn is a shrewd man, miss arsonist.”

Klara looked at him intensity, and then she looked down at her plate. “Is he alright then?” she asked.

“I don't know. I can't care,” Cartman replied, losing his humor. “He'll come back eventually. He died once, you know, and the Devil brought him back. Besides, he's afraid.”

“Hristanya is never afraid of anyone.”

Cartman scoffed. “Maybe. But I meant he's afraid of _losing_ that fucker Yardale. You can say your master is one of the most luckiest men in the world, handsome, charming, charismatic, the one to keep the frog’s attention for so long. I always knew DeLorn would make it big. He's putting his skills and talent to good use. It seems that he hasn't changed much from high school.”

Klara stared, waiting.

“When we were kids, he was a goody-two shoes, right up with Yardale. They were leaders of a revolution of some sorts. Yardale became the popular fag at school and was on track to be the most smartass of all the students. What a fucking joke. But DeLorn,” Cartman said, pausing a moment to smile at old memories, “he started fights. I wanted to be friends with him, actually, because it's rare to have a base instinct for violence and control. I thought I could use him, but then his bitchy mother got killed off by some drunk. I really thought he would have shot up the school after that.”

“He didn't,” Cartman explained, chuckling a bit. “His mother’s death changed the kind of dangerous freak he was, and he left South Park without a word. Yardale never felt quite the same since then. He fucked a couple friends, my wife included, became a big time lawyer, quit, and became a new crime lord of New York. Yeah, DeLorn knows what he's doing. It's a waste of time to worry about him. Just be the dog he sent you to be. He might think about keeping you around a little longer if you do what you're supposed to do.”

‹Shut your mouth,› Klara retorted quickly, reverting back to her native tongue out of anger. <I do this out of duty and respect to Hristanya. I am _no_ dog. >

‹Some sort of animal, then,› Cartman replied fluently. ‹A beast more like it, but keep in mind that you are not like DeLorn. He knows it. It's why he sent you to _him_.›

‹And how do you know?›

Cartman smirked, his chubby cheek softening his amusement, but his light tone was profound. ‹Because my wife, though small and bitchy, is what kind _you_ are. That makes me what kind DeLorn is.›

Klara huffed. ‹As if man like you can compare to Hristanya.›

Cartman rolled his eyes, scoffing at the younger’s lack of knowing how to be fucked by the world. ‹And yet you see as much as Yardale does. Pity. I thought you were better than him, but I can be wrong once in a while.›

‹You are intolerable.›

‹Thank you. I try.›

.

.

.

Gregory drove silently with Wendy in the passenger seat of his Lamborghini. She wanted to introduce him to some associates from Europe, a particular pair that 1940’s Germany would've wanted as a never speaking symbol of their preferred heritage. The English couple was about a decade yet vibrant in their age, eloquent like sages. They fenced rare pieces and always kept an eye out for what could ever catch their interests. Gregory might have heard that they had a child as well, hidden within homes of London.

“Why do you want to introduce me to them?” he asked as he parked his car at an uptown suite. “I already have a fencer, however distasteful he can be.”

Wendy hummed in acknowledgement, getting out before she answered. “You seemed bored recently, Gregory. Bebe has complained that you've been a bit too nosy and need to let loose. The Greenwiches aren't for business.”

Gregory chuckled, following his closest friend. His stuck his hands in his pockets as he watched her back amusingly. “When did you start dealing people, Wendy?”

Wendy didn't reply as she led Gregory up to one of the highest floors.

When the door opened, Gregory found himself reflecting somewhat on another man, his eyes also blue and his hair also yellow, but this man was older, more seasoned with less scarier wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. He seemed young, though Gregory knew the man was not.

“Why, hello, Miss Wendy,” the man said, moving aside to let them in. His accent spoke English, much more prominent than Gregory, but that was only because the latter had not returned to his birthplace in his adult life. “Please come in.”

“Morning, Adam,” Wendy greeted back, walking in. “Adam, this is Gregory, the man I've mentioned many times to you and Phyllis. You'll find that he's just interesting as he is pretty.”

Gregory chuckled. “Is that the best compliment you could afford me, Wendy?” he asked.

“I think it fits well,” Adam commented with a grin. “Getting a look at you now, I think she underestimated just how pretty you are, Mister Yardale. My wife, too, would say the same thing. We've met.”

“Adam,” a voice called from further in, a delicate voice yearning for her lover. She was English too, a gorgeous woman with long, curly raven hair and midnight eyes. Gregory have seen them before, only once and almost a year ago. “Who's at the door?”

She was naked, stretched out on the bed like a feather drifted from the sky. She was not shy when Wendy and Gregory walked in with her husband, sitting up as she reached a hand out for Wendy.

“Hello, deary.”

“Hello, Phyllis,” Wendy replied, sitting at the edge of the bed.

The woman, Phyllis, wrapped her naked form around the American-native German, and hummed in satisfaction. “Ooh,” she sounded, dark eyes on the newest guest, “he's a lot prettier than you say he is.”

Adam laughed. “See?” he asked, a hand gently pushing Gregory to take a seat on the edge of the bed. The older Englishman went to the table by the bed and pulled out the bottle of Merlot from the already prepared ice bucket. He poured four glasses full and passed all but one to the others.

The Englishman sat down besides Gregory, placing a well purposed hand on the younger man’s thigh as he took his first sip. “What brings you to us, Mister Yardale?” Adam asked softly. “Perhaps to peruse our inventory. My wife and I can definitely show you something _interesting._ ”

Gregory couldn't help but huff out amusingly, taking a sip himself. He found himself liking Adam’s attraction towards him. It was a wonder how a man with much more delicate features than most could be the one fucking a woman like Phyllis who more than exuded intoxicating pheromones. The younger felt himself growing erected by this simple touch, chuckling as he slipped his free hand around Adam’s lower back, fingers tugging lightly at the hem of a clean, white dress shirt.

“If you think I'd be impressed,” Gregory replied.

Phyllis giggled from her spot behind Wendy, who was smiling almost smugly. “You will, Mister Yardale,” the raven said with an enchanting smile. “We can give you a little bit of a show, and when you are incline to see more, we'll gladly continue.”

“And I believe I'd appreciate that.”

Adam smirked, tipping his glass forward, and the dark red liquid fell, splattering Gregory’s royal blue three piece suit. The older man had no disregard to how pricey the dry cleaning would be, letting his now empty glass drop from his hand, roll off the plush bed and land audibly onto the carpeted flooring.

Gregory exacted his revenge for his clothes by spilling his glass forward onto Adam, the liquid making the older man’s shirt almost see through, and his now empty glass fell too, Adam pushing him onto his back to settle between his legs on all fours.

“Let’s see how pretty you can really get, Mister Yardale.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you can tell, this work isn't quite finished yet, but I'm still working on it. I just wanted to get the first part out because I _finally_ finished it after a whole year, minus one day, of uploading the original story. Just wanted to show people I'm taking their kind words to heart, and hopefully, it ends up as something just as good. :)

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my work(s), please check out my Twitter and consider supporting me: [@kappachyun](https://twitter.com/kappachyun?s=09).


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